


Ambush

by wings128



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Clothed Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings128/pseuds/wings128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During an Atlantis-wide war games exercise John gets ambushed…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1: Written for the 30 Day Porn Challenge – "Frottage" aka Dry Humping.  
> Also for my contribution to the SGA...10 Years Later Fest  
> A/N 2: Grateful thanks to stir_of_echoes for the quick read through :)

It was a less than dignified, high pitched _oomph_ of surprise that left John’s lips when someone that could only be Ronon, grabbed him by his vest loop and hauled him into the Level 15 supply closet.

“Got you,” Ronon whispered, the two short words carrying enough sexual heat to melt any resistance John’s mind could’ve come up with, had it even wanted to.

“Yeah,” John choked out, warm eager breath over Ronon’s tattoo as he felt fucking huge hands turn and shove him against the cool dark interior; wrists pinned tight in an inescapable one-handed grip above his head.

Ronon felt incredible. The length of him surrounded all of John, his free hand insistent in its search for the hot bare flesh of John’s belly as hungry full lips and the tickling burn of stubble, captured and plundered his open willing mouth.

He’d dreamed about this; a thousand different scenarios on a thousand different lonely nights, a thousand different mornings waking to the solitary agony of cold release on the sweaty alien fabric of thirty thousand-year-old sheets.

John’d never got his head around the regs, had never been able to flout the rules that’d been drummed relentlessly into him throughout the life he’d chosen. Had never been able to shed his role of leader to this small band of humans, Athosians and this one Satedan, who looked to him to protect them, to keep them safe; but John had wanted, God had he ever. ‘The taste of Ronon’s mouth was so fucking _good!’_

Ronon growled impatiently. He had John right here and the man wasn’t fighting him – confirming Ronon’s own instincts, and rolling his hips against the leather covering the rod of Ronon’s rapidly filling dick. It felt good, felt fantastic, but Ronon needed skin; sweat-slick, salty, hot and smooth skin beneath his palm, and John’s unbelievably complicated clothing was cock-blocking his every advance.

“Zipper, centre.” John panted, harsh and desperate when they pulled back for much needed air.

John growled with relief and arched forward awkwardly, hungry to taste inked flesh on his tongue as Ronon leaned into the reach of John’s mouth to yank open the TAC vest and find John’s softly defined chest with its hard nubs tenting black cotton.

“Fuck!” Ronon’s breath was hot and tightened his already hard nipples before both tee and sensitive bud were engulfed and chewed by perfect white teeth. “Ronon, fuck!”

John’s hips rolled, thrust in the only movement his pinned arms allowed; up and in to meet Ronon’s hips, grinding their cocks together, cotton drill and rough brown leather catching with the desperate friction that’d waited three years for this. ‘And damn, if it didn’t feel fucking awesome!’

Ronon had moved onto his other nipple, same intense shards of heat rocketing need straight into John’s belly; swirling and driving his narrow hips in nice and tight, answering his lover’s own urgent grind.

John hoped Ronon would be his lover; that this wasn’t a onetime thing; a quick grope in the closet before being shoved back out, into the reality of their lives here in Pegasus. Because now that he’d gone with this, he had no way of turning it off. His feelings had been on a leash too long to tolerate the collar a second longer; and fucked if John wanted them to.

“Ronon?”

Ronon tensed at the twisted stupid insecure tone of his name filling John’s mouth, and lifted his mouth away from its sweet little treat, to meet the hazel eyes of his CO. ‘Was this all he was to get; barely a taste, barely a touch, before Sheppard ordered him away?’

But in Sheppard’s vulnerable wide-eyed gaze and the nervous pull of tender lip caught between not-quite-perfect teeth, Ronon saw the rest of his days held safe in the heart of this man. “I got you John.”

His name felt somehow protected in the huff of warm breath Ronon spoke into John’s waiting mouth, just as eager to claim its taste as Ronon was to share it in the first place.

“Yes!” He begged, tilting his chin to meet all that sweet heat, the echo of Athosian spice and the tease of playful tongue.

John tugged on the grip that bound him, fingers stronger than any iron shackle he’d experienced before; held him more completely than any Hive prison cell or dank dungeon, and he thrilled to it. He broke their kiss so Ronon would feast on the exposed line of his throat, that spot where John’s pale skin was unmarked.

He chased the friction, needed more. Close but still light-years from the bliss the fire in his blood promised with every shove of their hips. He wanted more, wanted everything. A feral growl choked him, cut off sound and thought as teeth sunk into his shoulder; possessive and sharp even through cloth. Ronon had him; had since the first moment, the first wary look that spoke the age-old question – friend or foe. John wanted to be had, needed to be taken, had waited too goddamn long.

Finally, he had his hands full of this fine ass, the one whose curves had taunted him, undulated in a hypnotising tease on every mission, since Ronon had agreed to stay. It was so sweet and firm, barely spilled over his palm. He squeezed, tested its ripeness, fingertips biting deep. John fought him, wriggling to get closer and Ronon chuckled deep and free with the headiness of success. He had John against him, under his hands and his mouth – wanting, just as much as Ronon himself.

He squeezed, wrist and ass together - John pinned between – and lifted his CO onto his toes, no space permitted as need surpassed caution.

“Fuck, yes,” Ronon felt the breathy relief, the soft plea lost in the tangle of dreads where John’d buried his face in an effort to get closer. _“Pleeease.”_

“Yeah, John,” and with one final lunge of hip and mouth, Ronon suffocated the sound of his team leader’s unrestrained pleasure; ripe sweet victory he longed for everyone to hear, as John writhed in his bonds.

Wet, and the scent of his lover’s release, the sound of his name in the intimate space between them drove Ronon forward, once, twice and over.

John, dazed and loose, slack in Ronon’s grip, whispered encouragement and praise, lost in the thrill of Ronon coming hard against him. Hot harsh breath, strained muscles, pounding hips, and the blissful slide of cock on cock; soaked fabric lending drag to tender flesh. He’d forgotten; the bliss, the sedated daze that only came from another and not from your own fist.

“Again.” His mind pleaded, but his cock was AWOL, out for the count.

He couldn’t help the whimper of protest when Ronon lifted his weight off of him. They should stay just like that, closer than close, for as long as it took to make up for John’s stupidity. ‘That’d take a while.’

He smirked at the thought and met the relaxing tension in Ronon’s soft brown eyes, saw those kiss-swollen lips quirk up in a smile John had never seen before but wanted to protect forever.

“You gonna let me go now, buddy?” John whispered, oddly hesitant and raspy with waning heat as he realised the double-edged sword of his words.

Ronon guided John back onto his feet, squeezed before sliding his hand off that perfect ass to trail along exposed skin between rucked shirt and low-slung belt; making the man in his arms shiver. “You want me to?”

The pause between one breath and the next was agonizing as Ronon waited, saw realisation dawn on John’s face before allowing himself to inhale.

“No, but we should get back to the game.” John tested Ronon’s grip on his wrists again and felt a twist of loss as it loosened, slid down his forearm to the crook of his elbow and scribed unknown symbols with the rough tips of gentle fingers. “Lorne’s probably taken out the rest of the team.”

“Game’s over if you’re captured, right?” Ronon murmured deep and close against John’s ear.

“Yeah.” John swallowed hard, allowed his own fingers to finally touch golden skin, moving like reading Braille over defined contours he couldn’t wait to taste.

“I win.” Ronon growled a second before John registered the electronic bleep that signalled he was dead.

“You shot me!” John tried to look wounded but the light in his eyes and the crooked smirk tugging at his reddened lips gave him away.

“And you w-”

“Yeah, I will.” John laughed as Ronon’s own life sign detector bleeped his untimely demise.

“This game is stupid.” Ronon mumbled, tried not to pout in the face of John’s annoying smugness, and made to leave their haven.

As Ronon pulled away John was struck with a wordless panic and grabbed for him, dragged him back, and for the first time knew the thrill of enfolding his lover in his own arms; of kissing what was finally his and leaving his mark, before pulling reluctantly back to see everything he felt looking back at him.

“C’mon Chewie,” he whispered and traced the spit-slick curve of Ronon’s lower lip with the fleshy pad of his thumb; thoughts turning heated once more. “Let’s round up the Stormtroopers, I’m starving.”


End file.
